


climb into your shell of grief

by ghoultown



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cannibalism takes a back burner in this, Car Accidents, Dark Will Graham, Grief/Mourning, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hurt Will Graham, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Revenge, Role Reversal, Someone Help Will Graham, Support Group, Surprisingly, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoultown/pseuds/ghoultown
Summary: "There is... a distinctiveness to the way that you carry yourself, Will. It is familiar in people like me and unfamiliar in people like them." Hannibal looks up at the sky, reading the stars. "And people cannot trust what they find unfamiliar.""Well, what can I do about that?" Will scoffs, feeling quite lost indeed."You say you have this man's address.""Yes."Hannibal holds out his hand, palm toward the calm sky, "May I have it?"Will has never been one for support groups. He hadn't planned to stay for long. And then he heard Dr. Lecter speak.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 37
Kudos: 149





	1. Intervention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my first hannibal fic... i want to thank my pal fiora for getting me into this show, I've been watching nonstop since the summer. 
> 
> this is definitely going to be a weird dynamic for the two guys. i hope you like it, feedback is welcome and comments/kudos are much appreciated!!

It is only due to Will’s third recommendation from a friend, his fourth vaguely concerned ex-coworker message, and his second oddly-timed encounter with a self-help billboard that he finally goes to the damn support group.

It is a Thursday night. That’s the problem. There is no excuse _not_ to go, this time. He has nothing else to do but wallow anyway. This is what he reminds himself as he drives to the public gymnasium-slash-public-pool-slash-bingo-tournament-center. A bustling place by day, inhumanly dark and grim by night. It’s an interesting location for a group centered around grief. Perhaps that is the point.

He expects to find himself in a large, empty space with a circle of chairs in the center. Tiled floor, scaffolded metal ceiling, the kind of place that can carry the buzzing echo of a footstep for hours. He looks down at the scribbled note in his hand. _Room A4, first level._ At least he won’t get lost in the many staircases of the building.

The floors are carpeted, his boots muted and dead as he walks through the hallways and into the dimly lit room known as A4. It seems to be a health classroom of some sort, rectangular spots of light-faded paint along the walls where posters used to be. Homey. Familiar enough to be approachable. Perfect.

The chairs aren’t in a circle, either. There are four, medium-sized desks strewn about the space, two chairs each. Everything smells like Lysol. Will prefers it that way. He sits down at the table furthest to the right of the room, teetering at the edge of the humming LED lights’ reach. Always fifteen minutes early, that’s his motto. It lessens the possibility of being thrown off guard.

People file in. They do not make eye contact. Good. There is a mutual sense of wanting to keep their distance despite coming to the building in the first place, intending to share their unkempt wounds and receive validation as the blood pools at their feet. He doesn’t plan to bleed, at least not tonight. There’s some lenience for newcomers, typically. That’s what he read in all those _5 Things You Need To Know Before Going to a Support Group_ articles.

No one sits beside him, the other six people enter and take their seats. They seem to be regulars. Friends, chatting quietly under their breath about normal things that mean nothing to Will. Their jobs, their kids. They don’t mention the trauma, it seems. They’ll mask it until the clock strikes eight when they’ll rip their bandaids off and let it pour.

“Is this taken?” Comes a man’s voice over his shoulder. Will doesn’t jump, surprisingly, as he glances over to the well-manicured hand that rests on the back of the stiff chair beside him.

“Ah, uh, no.” Will smiles at the hand, fully aware of the ineptness of the gesture, before turning back toward the front.

He expects the peripheral movement of a man sitting beside him. Instead, the chair is dragged away. The scraping sound of the metal chair legs are muted by the carpet, but Will figures the man is receding to the very back of the room. Further into the black of the perimeter than Will had thought to go. There were desks, so he sat at one. He didn’t know that rearranging was part of the deal.

There’s a sense of guilt. Perhaps the man had his own desk buddy and now has to sit alone. Will can’t do anything about it now, he supposes. Perhaps, alternatively, the man isn’t one for buddies at all. The guilt ebbs.

“Hello!” Another man, personified sunlight, peeks inside to scan the room before walking briskly to the front. “So sorry I’m late, everyone. Traffic.”

A shallow tidal wave of muttered _no problems_ and _it’s wild out theres_ from the group. Will says nothing. 

The group is called _Embracing the Shell._ Will pictures a turtle on its back when he hears the name. It doesn't seem dignified or... attractive. He watches the man (Todd, according to his nametag) scribble the title of the group on the whiteboard with a marker that seems quite close to death. _Embracing the Shell._

“So wonderful to see all your smiling faces. So sorry that last week's meeting was short, my daughter had an appointment and, well. You know the drill.” He pulls a stool out of the shadows to sit on. “I suppose we're all here, so I'll go ahead and do the spiel. For those who are new,” Todd says, not looking at Will but clearly talking exclusively to him, “When we talk about our shells, we are talking about our inner selves, our barriers, and the memories who keep us in the terrible place between zero and one.”

Will wants to sigh. He’s tired of this, already. These metaphors. He doesn’t think that burying his grief in poetry will do much to bring anyone back. Metaphors seem to hide the real problem, an opening act that’s not meant to be on for long. Apparently, this group has dedicated an entire hour to the opening act. 

“ _What does a broken shell have to do with grief?_ Jaqueline Steudler wrote that in her blog.” Todd nods to the group as if to say _let that sink in._ “It's a question that every group has to interpret, and one that every group interprets differently. For us, we embrace. We are not trying to _fix_ our shells, there may never be glue strong enough to put ourselves back together again. But we are rather gathering ourselves up nonetheless, welcoming our loss alongside our new beginnings, and continuing on.”

A community hum. Will doesn’t hear the man behind him hum. He doesn’t know what that means. Maybe he’s new as well.

“So,” Todd claps. “Goals, then. We’ll go around to those who want to share and give some updates on where we are. No pressure at all, but if you’re inclined to speak… you have the floor.”

The woman in the front row, Cindy, lost her brother last year. Her goal for the month was to go back to the grocery store where she had last seen him. She made it to the parking lot, a vast improvement. Her desk buddy, Grover, was babysitting his younger siblings while his parents were on a cruise a while back. Will can read between the lines. His goal has shifted from going to the marina to watching some ocean documentaries. He’s halfway through _Blue Planet._ He gets soft praise for that.

Everyone goes around the room. Scott, Sydney, Mary, and Jacob. Todd glances over at Will with a welcoming eyebrow raise. Will shakes his head. Todd seems to understand.

“And what about you, Doctor?” Todd’s gaze shifts slightly to the right, behind Will. Everyone turns to look, and Will waits a moment before he thinks to follow suit. “Any updates you’d like to share?”

“Always so keen to hear me speak.” The voice rumbles in Will’s chest as he turns to look at the man, just barely visible in the back of the room, wearing a full three-piece-suit in the casual community sports center. It’s clean and pressed. Suddenly, Will feels much smaller than he did a moment ago. “Despite your golden no-pressure philosophy.”

Todd chuckles, “Well, you always seem to know what to say when the rest of us don’t know where to begin.”

“I see.” The doctor smiles. Will is enthralled. He hasn’t seen a person in a three-piece suit in real life in a long, long time. There’s a natural aura of authority. “We tend to look to the ones hidden in the shadows when we’re at a loss for words.”

“Indeed we do. Lend us some?”

The doctor takes a calm breath. His eyes are twinkling, though unaccompanied by a smile, as if he knows something the rest of them don’t. Will is finding it hard to breathe as he waits for the man to speak. “I have seldom given thought to returning home. It feels… inaccessible, one of two doors in my mind I keep closed but never lock.” The doctor brushes a hand down the front of his jacket to smooth it out, “When I drafted these rules, I intended to stick to them.”

Will hears Todd move behind him. He finds himself frozen in his chair. Every word this man says is intentional, careful. Suddenly, Will’s aversion to metaphor subsides.

“It sounds as though you’re considering breaking those rules.” Will can hear the smile in Todd’s voice. It breaks him from his trance and he shifts in place.

“It has occurred to me, yes.” The doctor looks over Will’s shoulder. Will finds himself suddenly wanting to move ever so slightly to the left, just into his field of vision. “Pursuing this intrusive urge would prove harmful. But it is certainly a step in a direction.”

“Very good, Hannibal. Thank you.”

Will’s suspension of disbelief drops from the air and shatters on the carpeted floor. _His name is… what?_

Will can’t focus on anything else during the time allotted. Todd is writing other pretentious quoted bullshit on the board but he can’t seem to care. _Hannibal._ What kind of name is that? And why does he linger on this, anyway? This is a place of anonymity, trust, pacing. A place to _take your time._ But, suddenly, Will doesn't want this to be a place of waiting. He wants to know everything about this man. Now. He _has_ to be an important person. Some sort of celebrity or businessman with millions of dollars. He speaks in goddamn riddles. But such beautifully crafted ones. He doesn’t waste a word. Will can’t decide between awe or envy. 

And, then, Todd stands from his stool and says, “That’ll be all for us. If anyone needs to stay after, I’m here for another half hour per usual.”

Will stands, wondering how he can attempt to grab Hannibal’s attention as he walks out. He’s been transported to his college days, the art of consciously altering how he is perceived to entice conversation. It’s ridiculous. Before he can even consider a course of action, Todd is waving him up to the front. He instantly feels his stomach drop.

“Hello, there,” Todd says as he approaches, holding his hand out. Will hesitantly accepts. “Can I ask for a name? You can make up one if you’d like.”

“U-uh, Will. Graham.” His hand drops against his side.

“I’m Todd Neilson. It really is wonderful to see you here, Will.”

Will opens his mouth to make an excuse to leave, perhaps to say something along the lines of _I think I’m not cut out for this sort of thing._ But Todd cuts him off.

“No need to explain. I see the shield you wear, we all have one.” He claps Will on the shoulder, “You can speak as much or as little as you wish. This is your space.”

“Right,” Will says. He glances over his shoulder. Hannibal’s gone. He tucked his chair in before he left. That checks out. “Uh. Nice to meet you, I have to be off. For... yeah.”

“Here, take my card,” Todd says. It's handwritten on an index card. "If you need anyone to talk to in the next week, just let me know. I'm always free."

"Thanks." Will doesn't want this. But he slips it into his pocket anyway.

As he shuffles out of the room, he can't help but feel a bit put down. He came here expecting to have to reflect on his own grief, but here he is... focused and damn near obsessed with this absolute stranger's loss. After just moments of hearing him speak. What cruel joke is this? 

He has nothing to offer to this man, and yet he _wants_ to have something to offer. There’s something about him that emanates trust. Confidentiality. Safety. Confidence. Will’s never been a people person, but _this guy?_ He seems to be so much more than a person.

Will pushes the front door open with his hip, feeling the cool air rush into the collar of his shirt. He watches a slick, black vehicle pull out of the parking lot.

He decides in that moment that he will be returning next week.


	2. Condolence

_It’s always the same dream from a different perspective, no matter what._

_His brain had found so many ways to stretch out that ten-second moment in time. The first night, it was his own perspective. That made sense. It was the shatter of glass and the crunch of the metal, just as he’d heard it. Just as he’d felt it. Just as he’d seen up until the moment he lost consciousness._

_Tonight, he is watching from the trees. There’s her silver Mazda, pulling to the side of the road. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of reach. The two right tires are in the grass. The other two are resting just to the left of the white line. She doesn’t know this. Of course she doesn’t. How could she, unless she got out of the car to check?_

_High beams, down the road. Approaching the turn. Supposed to slow down. She doesn’t reach for the keys because she thinks she’s in the clear._

_The car, the people in it, the groceries in the back. They are wracked with the force of seventy miles per hour, the driver’s side bearing the brunt of the impact as they spin forty-seven degrees and tumble into the ditch five feet below the road._

* * *

Will opens his eyes.

He lifts a hand to check his forehead, to see if a shower is in order. Or, at least, to see if there’s enough sweat to justify even getting out of bed. There is. He groans as he stands, checking his phone. Only five minutes before his alarm was set to go off, anyway. Very nicely timed.

Since retiring from the FBI, he’s been skirting around the topic of employment. He’ll have to go back soon, back to something normal. Maybe he’ll apply at the public library. He’s always felt somewhat safe, there, between the shelves that reach the low-ceilings and the smell of treated paper and twine.

Frankly, any excuse to be a human on a regular basis. The loneliness is mounting with every passing day. He isn’t used to all the _silence_. The temptation to take in one of the many dogs running around town has grown terribly difficult to avoid.

She was allergic to dogs, that was the main reason they never got one. So, there’s a new possibility for him. Silver linings, perhaps.

His food supply has dwindled to a staggeringly low level. This is, once again, the feather on the broken bridge. He’s been bleeding the non-perishables from a month ago. Going to the grocery store is such a grueling task at this point. Too much risk, too much energy. He’s been considering trying out one of those online-order grocery things. He just needs to sit down and read how they work and he’s golden.

Today is as good a day as ever to be a person, for a little while. It’s good for the soul. Probably.

The dark-red shirt greets him as he slides the closet door open. He lifts a hand to push it further down the rack but he pauses. He can’t keep pushing it down the rack every day. He closes his fist around the fabric of the sleeve, dragging it from the hanger and tossing it into the trash bin across the room. The hanger clatters at his feet.

_Took five spin cycles to get rid of the blood._

Will doesn’t care what shirt he’s wearing to the store. Oftentimes he forgets he has a body at all, how could he expect to consider how he’s perceived? It’s all such a waste of time.

It’s been four days since he saw that doctor from the group. The memory returns to him as he parks in the spot furthest from the doors, recalling the waves of curiosity and intrigue. There isn’t much he can do about this mild (ha!) obsession until Thursday, anyway. Well… there is one.

How many doctors named Hannibal could there possibly be in Wolf Trap, Virginia?

Will sinks into the car seat, pulling the key from the ignition and trading them in his pocket for his phone. He’ll go into the store soon, he just needs to look up this query (to which he likely already knows the answer). He fumbles with the device, his hands stiff from the cold.

He types: _Hannibal doctor Virginia._

It’s been almost four months since he did this, followed the online path to someone’s identity. Last time was vengeful, shaking hands and determined eyes. This is a leisurely stroll if anything.

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Lithuania. Florence. Culinary arts. Psychiatry. 443-555-0159._

Will raises his eyebrows. He was way off. He was thinking repressed businessman, perhaps nepotistic rich man. But he’s a psychiatrist. Certainly, psychiatrists go to support groups, it makes sense in principle. But Hannibal could go anywhere. Why go to the recreation center in the boondocks? Why not… hell, find a less accessible one? Perhaps accessible was the point.

There’s no reason to keep investigating beyond this. He knows nothing beyond his name and number, there isn’t enough here to build anything from. And besides, he shouldn’t. This is edging on invasion of privacy. There won’t be a comprehensive article that outlines the guy’s traumas. No Wikipedia synopsis of the past however many years. What a world that would be.

Will hovers his thumb over the _images_ tab, as if he could possibly forget what the man looks like. A knock on the window interrupts.

“My, my,” the muffled voice says. Will closes his eyes and rests his head back against the seat, sighing. Shit. “Of all the faces I planned to capture today, I never could have expected yours.”

“I doubt that the crime community is flourishing at this market,” Will mutters, reaching for the _lock_ button. The door is yanked open before he can press it.

“It is now, it seems.” Freddie taps her gloved fingers on the top of the door, “I couldn’t help but notice a chipped Volvo parked at the very edge of the lot. I thought to myself, _could it be?_ ”

“And it was.”

“And it was,” Freddie repeats, eyes gleaming. She holds her purse closer to Will’s face, “Now, could you tell me who you’re meeting today? I assume you’re meeting someone.”

“Freddie.” This was a mistake. He’ll order in for a few days. Just anything but this. He lifts a hand to brush the bright red purse away, “Go home.”

She smiles, “How long has it been, now?”

Will blinks. _The car, the people in it, the groceries in the back._ “Five months.”

“My condolences.”

“There is not an ounce of condolence in your body,” Will says. There is an inherent barrier between his rage and his voice right now… in the form of the recording device Freddie has given up on hiding in her purse. Anything he says will be a dagger in his back in twenty four hours. He’s been burned before. “Let the door go.”

“One more question,” she says, gripping even tighter. Her purse nearly clips Will’s jaw.

“No,” Will says, lifting his hand to push away the intruder for a second time.

A cold, gloved hand wraps around his wrist. “You know that I could have helped you, right?”

Will stares at her. “Unless you were the one driving… you had no hand in anything.”

“But I did have a hand in _something_ , if you recall.” She lowers her voice, “I am the whisper in the ears of the insane. We could have worked together. But you were incredibly fussy.”

He wrenches his arm away, “Let go of the door.”

“Will Graham, widower, quite vulnerable to any sudden attacks to one of the _many_ enemies he’s collected over the years.” She tucks her now free hand into her pocket, “I am as valuable a tool now as I was five months ago.”

The pictures of the Mazda. Crumpled on one side, nearly untouched on the other. Plastered across TattleCrime.com and its sister magazine. She was still in the car. He was still in the car.

Will slams the door closed, nearly catching Freddie’s hand. His phone slides onto the floorboards as he sits up, struggling to get the key into its place with his shaky hands. Freddie tries to get another word in, doesn’t she always, but Will drives off before he can try to listen.

_High beams, down the road. Approaching the turn. Supposed to slow down._

He drives until he reaches home, missing every red light by a hair. He stumbles out of the car, struggling to keep his focus on unlocking the door –

_She was watching from the trees. We were both still in the car._

\- walking past his empty kitchen, the untouched couch –

_She was dead and I was almost dead and there were pictures being taken and I couldn’t move._

\- until he reaches his bed and, finally, collapses.


	3. An Introduction

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

It seemed to be one last week, but that was before the wound was reopened and he realized how quickly progress can be reversed.

The truth of the matter is this: it is easy, by some accounts, to extinguish a fire that has just been set. It was meant to be a ten-minute store run three days ago. But Will has let this fire grow for five months and the ground has gotten so very red underneath.

It only takes ten minutes for a house to burn to the ground unsupervised.

Will pulled into the parking lot an hour early. Maybe to get out of the house a bit earlier, perhaps to prepare himself. He doesn’t want to talk in this group. But he knows that he can’t heal completely if he doesn’t talk to _someone._ And soon. He has the outlet, the folks seem kind enough, Todd would probably be proud of him. But he isn’t sure where to start. Or how to start at all. It’s so much easier to say nothing.

(He presses his hand to his heart, over his jacket. The paper beneath, in the hidden pocket, crinkles. He lets his hand fall. It’s still there. Good.)

There is a precipice of cowardice that he’s about to fall down, he can feel it. One more moment, one more breath, he might start the car and head home. It’s not too late to pull out, no one in the group really knows his name. There’s no risk. Not yet.

If he stays, they’re bound to find out. That’s the issue. If it weren’t for all that press, all the terrible articles written about the community nut, he might not be so hesitant. But the articles exist – and are readily accessible to anyone who looks for them.

Will exhales, heavy, the noise of a decision being made. It’s more appealing to heal alone, no matter how much more time it might take.

He stops mid-breath as he spots the dark vehicle parked across the lot, the furthest spot from the entrance. There doesn’t seem to be anyone inside. Completely of his own volition, unrelated to this discovery, Will pushes the car door open.

What does he expect to find in that room? Hannibal, surely, in his spot in the dark, but what then? Silence, for half an hour? With Hannibal’s eyes boring into his neck? Certainly not. More than anything, he wants to _talk_ to Hannibal, earn his respect and seem worth his time. But is he willing to set that into motion? Hannibal isn’t one to speak unless prompted, from what he knows. And he doesn’t know much.

The hallway stretches in front of him as he walks. It’s almost a comfort – there’s still time to turn back.

Will knows this much – it has been months since he has felt anything beyond numbness, hunger, exhaustion. There is an overwhelming feeling of curiosity, here, and it is beautiful. A reminder of humanity is always welcome.

All of the lights are on in the room, this time. The light filters out into the dim hallway, the buzzing of the LEDs louder than he remembers. That makes him feel more vulnerable, somehow, all that light. If Hannibal truly is there, sitting in his spot, he’ll certainly be the center of attention. Is that a good thing?

He enters the room. The whiteboard is bare, all four corners of the walls are lit. The desks are shinier than Will remembers, Hannibal is sitting at the desk, writing in a notebook with a very nice pen, there’s a corner of the wall trim that’s falling apart that Will hadn’t noticed before, and –

_Hannibal’s sitting at the desk._

He left Will’s seat open. The notebook in front of him is half-full, it seems, but not worn. In fact, if it weren’t open to such a deep page, Will would believe it was new. The spine crackles in the empty room as Hannibal closes the cover. Shit. He’s looking straight at him, now. Fuck.

“Hello,” Will murmurs. “I’m… uh, so sorry, did I take your place last week?”

“Not at all.” The man gestures to the seat beside him. “One could say I took _your_ place.”

Oh. This is going well. Better than he could have ever asked for, really. There is a sense of dread, too, that is often coupled with the act of being perceived. The excitement threatens to drown it out, though.

“I can’t help but assume that you’ve been attending these sessions more than I have.” Will crosses the room, leaving ample space between himself and Hannibal as he walks. He does this knowing that he will be sitting next to him in a matter of seconds. “I was afraid I’d interrupted your routine.”

“I find that routines are often best to be broken when it comes to grief.” Hannibal nods, a smile just barely present. He seems like he’s so… in control. Will wonders how that feels. “I should thank you, in that case.”

Will hums. He watches as Hannibal pushes his notebook to settle in the left corner of the tabletop. He must manage his expectations, now, more than ever. This conversation is going well, thank god, but he cannot expect to continue on that ideal path. At least, not today. He won’t ask about the book. He breaks his eyes away to meet Hannibal’s.

Such a weird organ, eyes. Will feels like he could know exactly what Hannibal is thinking right now if only he had the right tools, the right pieces.

“Was I right in my assumption?” Will says quietly, unsure if he should keep talking or just quit while he’s ahead.

Hannibal blinks, “About my attendance?”

“Yes.” Will shrugs. He doesn’t want to backpedal at the lack of an immediate answer, though he wants to quite badly, so he begins to explain his thought process. “I noticed that… uh… _Todd_ knew you by name. And he was comfortable enough to call on you in front of the group, so. There’s a level of comfortability, there.”

“Very astute.” A smile, larger this time. Good. “Todd created this community years ago. I’ve had the opportunity to watch it transform and shift. The group that started here left, new faces appeared. Those faces grew comfortable, they healed and left as well. Almost as if I’ve seen three generations of wounds.”

Will nods once. “Have you had a favorite?”

Hannibal considers this. Will is thrilled – it was such a simple question, and yet it seems to have surprised the man. He wants to be surprising. He wants to be worth considering. _God, this is ridiculous._

“Never been asked.” He taps the table with a hand, “That should be an indicator.”

That’s all Will needs to hear. He almost didn’t come, today. He could have missed this opportunity, this information.

Had Hannibal come early for this reason? To converse, to learn, to meet. Or was this just a by-product of timeliness? Will is going to tear himself apart for days after this. Ten minutes to burn a house town, thirty minutes to build it back again. It seems sustainable on the surface, but the sustainability hinges on Hannibal talking to him on somewhat of a normal basis. And it’s still too early to discern whether that is even a possibility.

He hears a voice down the hallway – two. Will is tempted to check his watch. He knows for a fact it isn’t time yet, surely it’s too early for them to already be filing in.

Hannibal must notice his confusion, “Oftentimes, they wait in their cars for a leader. Following is easier than leading.”

“Ah,” Will says. He glances over to the door as Cindy (?) and Grover (?) peek their heads inside before heading to their seats. He keeps his voice low, “But I’m new, here. Wouldn’t they find the trip inside to be easier?”

“Not everyone is equipped to be a leader.” Hannibal nods, Will barely catches it. “They may be planning on sharing today. Walking to the cliff is easy, jumping off is quite different.”

Will chuckles as quietly as he can manage. Wow. A psychiatrist comparing sharing someone’s grief in a support group to jumping off a cliff. That certainly paints an image.

Hannibal leans back in his chair, though his posture is still immaculate. Will is almost inclined to copy that posture but he figures that would be pretty obvious, so he stays still. For a moment, there’s a possibility that conversation will continue. An intake of breath.

“Hey, gang,” says Todd, stumbling into the room. He points to a loose carpet square, the culprit, but continues to the front. “Nice to see everyone early, today.”

A ripple of acknowledgment through the room. Will is half-thankful for the noise and half-annoyed – will Hannibal be early next week? God, he hopes so.

“A few of you reached out to me after last week, so I figured we’d jump right into _your_ stories and past all my nonsense.” He smiles and sits on the stool at the front, planting his hands on his knees. “Whenever you’re ready, whenever you find a moment you’re comfortable in. Embrace it by letting it free.”

Will wonders, if Hannibal hadn’t been in this group, if he would feel so… _bored_ , right now. What a terrible feeling, to be so inconvenienced by the trauma of others. He’s here to heal too – or, at least, he _was._ How did his brain spiral so readily into this useless pursuit of attention?

Scott is speaking about his own struggles with the process, getting choked up. Will wonders how he would sound when talking about the past few months. Would he cry, too? He’s keen to pretend he still has dignity, but maybe crying would be more dignified. Everything’s sideways.

It hasn’t been a year since he lost her. He’s moving too fast. Well, that implies he wants something from Dr. Lecter. Which… he can’t even begin to think about right now.

“The growth you’ve shown over these past few months is astonishing, Scott. Way to go.” Todd gives a very enthusiastic thumbs up and Scott sinks into his chair, seemingly exhausted. It makes sense. The group claps. Will hesitantly joins, but Hannibal’s hands are stationary. Folded on the tabletop like they were made for that sole purpose. Or, maybe, like the _table_ was made for this purpose.

Todd’s eyes sweep the room. They land on him. Classic.

Will simply presses his lips together and shakes his head again, beginning to trace invisible shapes into the desk. If he holds eye contact for too long, it might seem like he really _does_ want to share. And, even if he did, it would likely only be to make himself vulnerable in front of a certain someone. He needs to be careful about his vulnerability.

He’s been burned before.

Things wrap up relatively quickly. Any possibility that the others would share seemed to fade, as confidence is ought to do at some time, and Todd launched into a whiteboard visualization talks. Again with the shell, again with the _embrace it._ Again with the _offer companionship to your grief._ Will doesn’t want that. Being a companion to his trauma sounds like a lonesome ordeal, more so than actual loneliness.

“Hope to hear from you all next week,” Todd says, capping the dry-erase marker he’s been doodling with for the past half hour. “If you need anything, you know where I am and how to reach me.”

The silence is displaced for a few moments, people quickly standing and chatting as they gather their water bottles and phones from the tables. Planning to grab dinner, asking about their week. Hannibal stands swiftly. Will keeps his gaze forward, figuring the man will be gone in a matter of seconds.

Those seconds pass. Hannibal is standing somewhere just out of Will’s periphery, but the notebook remains on the table.

Todd opens his mouth to say something to the two of them, the room now empty, but his watch beeps and he curses under his breath. His eyes meet Will’s and he says, “You know, this is the third time I’ve forgotten that I have an appointment. Isn’t memory so funny?”

Will shrugs. Todd’s eyes stray over Will’s shoulder, a now-familiar sight, before he rushes away with a wave in their direction.

Now they’re alone, again. That is, if Hannibal is still here. Which Will can’t be certain of. He can't hear breathing or movement - though, to be fair, he can barely hear his own thoughts over the buzz of the damn lights.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

Will slowly pivots in his seat, trying to brush off any of the panic he may or may not have just felt – Hannibal is just standing there, his right hand in his jacket pocket, very much exuding statuesque energy. But when doesn't he?

He wants to say many things. About discomfort. About windows to souls being a goddamn lie. About burst veins. About too little, too much. But instead, he says, “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” Hannibal’s attention strays to the bars of overhead lights. Will wonders if he’ll ever see what Hannibal looks like in the sun. Probably not.

Will offers a laugh about two seconds later than he should have, rattled by that thought. “Right.”

A beat. Then, “I... know you likely come here for privacy,” Hannibal says – Will’s brain is stuck on the way he pronounces _privacy,_ some caveman part of his brain lights up at the accent – taking a few slow steps forward. “But if you ever need someone to lend an ear.”

Will opens his mouth to reply. How should he go about this? If he says yes, which he wants to, what if Hannibal finds that to be needy? What if he overstays his welcome? And if he doesn’t, what if Hannibal avoids him? Sees is as a sign to stay away, to steer clear?

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Will murmurs, quite miserable about his decision. He stands, prepared to… well, he doesn’t quite know what he’s preparing for.

“Ah.” Hannibal says, which almost triggers panic. He retrieves a pristine business card from his pocket, minimalist and clean, with his name and the number Will already has saved in his phone. To be fair, he’d expected this to happen months down the road. “If you change your mind.”

Will traces the card with his eyes as he takes it. Then, with his thumb. _Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Psychiatry. 443-555-0159._ The letters are embossed, very fancy indeed. Will reads the words a few times before he realizes what they mean, in this situation. Shit. “I, uh… am probably not one for therapy, Dr. Lecter.” Of course. Of _course,_ he’s been duped into psychiatry. Of _course,_ this guy was probably scouting for a tough case and –

“Don’t tell me you think it doesn’t work on you,” he says. Will can’t tell if he’s genuinely disappointed.

“N-no, it’s just. Money’s tight, these days.” Will wants to explain further – hell, he’d go into his entire life story if it meant Hannibal would keep looking at him like this, turned in his chair to face him. But it’s inappropriate to unload without asking, and he can’t find the words to the question. “So. Uh.”

“Oh, no.” Hannibal shakes his head, “Forgive me – whatever the card may imply, I promise I am simply offering a friendly conversation. And I always keep my promises.”

Will lets out a breath, slowly tucking the card into his pocket, “Oh. Wow. Thank you.”

“Of course, Will.” Hannibal smiles and, with a nod, tucks his chair in and slips into the hallway, his notebook under his arm.

It is on the drive home that Will realizes he never gave Hannibal his name.


	4. Perception

Ordering groceries online is easier than he thought, it turns out. He’d underestimated himself – he’s not as swept by the growing tide of technology as he thought he was. This is a small victory in a crowd of setbacks. Sure, maybe it costs an extra twenty dollars but that’s fine. It’s a relatively reasonable fee for avoiding attention for a few weeks, a few months. Whatever it takes.

He’s envious of the other folks’ victories – Cindy venturing into the grocery store, Grover watching his programs. They all seem to be venturing on while Will just continues to sink. He tells himself it gets worse before it gets better. Maybe this is as bad as it gets, just before an uptick.

Hannibal’s card is in his wallet. Will hasn’t so much as _touched_ his wallet in five days, but he can just _sense_ it being there. He doesn’t need to call for anything. He doesn’t want to talk about himself, he wants to be in that situation again where _Hannibal_ interacts and _Hannibal_ opens the conversation. Will doesn’t want to wedge his way into anything, no, that wouldn’t be interesting enough.

There’s something Hannibal seems to offer. Something important, just hidden behind those eyes. How frustrating – if it were anything else, his hands, Will would be more in his element. He’s been avoiding eye contact for years, more familiar with body language and the flow of emotion there.

All those secrets, so close and yet so far. Will wishes he knew the right order of events to get there sooner. A synopsis of this terrible time would be ideal, a quick switch flip to get to the interesting part would be sublime. If only he were religious, he supposes.

Will’s phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. Once, then twice – so, more than a text about the groceries, then. He hesitantly glances over, expecting to see _Unknown_ or _Possibly Spam._ That’s what’s useful about technology, the new opportunities to evade wasted time.

Instead, the screen reads _In-laws._

He hasn’t seen them in just over a month. They had wanted to visit the house to gather up the rest of her belongings they may have missed – this is what they said, anyway, yet they left empty-handed. And the time before that, they were sitting in chairs by his hospital bed.

Will lets it ring out, leaning against the opposite countertop. He has nothing to say, today, nothing about her. Even worse, he has an idea of what they’ll say – they’ll ask him how he’s doing, he’ll say he misses her. They’ll offer to come by, to offer comfort. Will would have to say yes. It would be a horrendous afternoon of concentrated grief.

Will knows that they think of him. What they _thought_ of him, before. It must kill them to have to check up on him like this.

They do not leave a voicemail. It tells Will all he needs to know.

The groceries arrive soon after, which offers a distraction for a few minutes. He didn’t buy much, the appetite isn’t back yet, but he has to start somewhere. Besides, he can only dodge people’s calls for so long – when they actually start coming, he’ll have to have a full fridge and a less worrying visage. He has a ways to go yet.

With every gripe, every wish, every negative echo in his mind, Hannibal’s card taunts him from the nightstand. He knows the answer lies with Dr. Lecter. But he doesn’t deserve it.

* * *

_He now unfortunately knows the warning signs of these dreams. If he didn’t, perhaps it would be a more restful sleep up until the crash._

_A walk in the forest wouldn’t be half bad. But there are the signs – the differences of the universe. The way the air feels, the way it moves around him. The way his vision splits into fragments the further away he walks and becomes clearer the closer he is to where he needs to be. His psyche has decided he must live here, in this moment, in sleep as he does in his waking hours. Not only in this moment of time – in this moment of pain, in a precise place to witness exactly what he needs to remember._

_He’s been stuck in the forest, in the trees, for weeks. Watching it happen. Now, he doesn’t know where he is, but he knows this – he can hear them, now._

_It’s the argument. The noise of his voice, of hers – no matter how far away he is, no matter what perspective he’s tethered to, the voices sound as if they could be behind him. The argument, her last moments. The sound of the engine sputtering to a stop, of the dashboard vibrating for an instant afterward._

_They were arguing. She unbuckled to face him. He told her to put it back on._

_And it was too late_

* * *

Will enters the police station, his left pocket heavier than normal. He pushes the door open, feeling less confident on his third trip than his first. He just has to walk up to the desk, ask the question, do what he’s meant to, hope to God they don’t throw him out before he can do so.

He walks through the tile hallway, the lights nearly blinding as they bounce off of the white interior. His footsteps are awfully loud, here, as they always have been. He should buy new shoes, specifically for this monthly trip. Quieter ones. Before they recognize his face, they probably know who he is based on his shoes.

Will turns the corner. A chain reaction occurs today just like last time, and the time before that.

The man at the desk, Eli, glances up. Spots him. A pair of officers appear, standing at either side of the desk. For protection, probably. Will wants to tell himself that it’s a bit excessive. He knows it isn’t.

Eli lifts a hand and places it on his telephone, to keep it in place. “Hello, Mr. Graham.”

“Hey,” Will says, reaching into his pocket. The officers shift, preparing. Will holds up his wallet, very clearly, offering a sour smile. “How’s it goin’, guys?”

“You’re here for your payment,” Eli says, though it’s probably meant to be a question. He already knows the answer. He’s just hoping for some more information, for the rest of the script they’ve created.

“Can I talk to Lieutenant Perry, please?” Will says, flattening the check on the counter. “I’m free all day, so I don’t mind waiting.”

“And he’s busy all day.”

Will presses his lips into a tight smile, “That’s how it goes.”

“Just twenty more payments,” Eli says, picking up the check and opening a drawer. “And you’re in the clear.”

“Only twenty more,” he says, nodding as if that’s at all comforting. “Thanks. Give me a call if, by some miracle, the Lieutenant has a few minutes.”

The Lieutenant has miraculously gone three months few-minutes-free. It’s astonishing that he hasn’t had a heart attack by now, truly.

Every time, since the last time, the transaction has gone like this – Will enters, the officers stand on either side of the desk to protect Eli (given his behavior in the past), Will asks to see Lieutenant Perry, Eli says he’s busy, the check is given, the check is received, he leaves. It is a dance, a craft, of sorts.

It is an impossible situation, he’s in. He is seen as a threat, here, in this police station. Just a man, riddled with grief, who caused a scene once. He is _feared_ by these people – and he loves it. He’s never been a particularly threatening figure. It’s a welcome change. There’s more power in a frightening grieving man than a normal grieving man.

It’s a silly thing. He knows he will never be looked at with _true_ fear, it’ll fade with time. There’s no potential for chaos within him. That’s alright.

He’s made peace with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm picking up the pace here because i am so excited to get to the exciting part oh my god I'm thrilled


	5. Unhappening

The evening starts nicely.

Will enters Room A4 an hour early this time. He knows Hannibal won’t be there but he’d like to be the first one today. There’s a sense of confidence to being an already-placed fixture in a room, a sense of belonging. Hannibal’s presence the first time was not a negative power imbalance but a power imbalance nonetheless – the man’s presence, in any situation, is an imbalance. Hannibal has more secrets than him – well, most likely _better_ secrets. Will might be quite let down if he finds out this isn’t the case.

He flicks the lights on as he brushes past the switch, settles in the stiff chair he’s assigned to himself. There is the lingering sense of guilt – to be _excited_ for a goddamn support group, and not for the healing it’s meant to bring.

It only takes a few moments for Hannibal to arrive. This is somehow unexpected.

There were no footsteps, which would often alert him to someone’s presence, but it was the change in the air. It is an empty room, then a moment of oddness, and Will glances up to find Hannibal standing in the doorway, staring at him. It’s a kind stare, though somewhat surprised.

“Hello,” Will says. He leans back in the chair. It creaks. He reads Hannibal’s confusion, “Sorry if I stole your reflection time.” He isn’t sorry.

“In order for it to be reflection time, I would have to reflect.” The doctor finally enters, “I don’t find myself reflecting often.”

Will considers bringing the notebook up but doesn’t. It could be his notebook for psychiatry – it doesn’t make much sense to bring it to a public forum. “That sounds heavenly. I might reflect too much.”

“Then you know yourself well. That’s a benefit.” Hannibal hangs his coat on the back of his own chair, pausing to look down at Will. “If I craved time alone, I would not have come in.”

Will makes a face, “Well, you may not have known I was here.”

“I was simply following the leader.” He sits. There’s no notebook, today. Maybe because he knew Will would be here. So, it’s _extra_ secret, then. 

Will smiles at this reference to their last conversation. It feels good to have his words remembered beyond his face. Furthermore, it feels good to _talk_ to someone beyond Eli at the station (conversation drowned in malice) or a cashier at the grocery store (in passing, bored). He doesn’t feel worthy of Hannibal’s time, no, but he supposes the man wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to talk.

Hannibal turns slightly to face him, “I hesitate to be so forward,” he begins, which immediately makes Will nervous, “but I wonder when the day will come, if it does, where you share your story.”

Will makes a face, though he doesn’t mean to. “Hm. I’m not sure if I’d call it that _._ ”

“Surely you have one.”

“I’m sure I do, but stories often have some sort of _format,_ some actual substance beyond… uh, noise. Besides, it feels as though I’m giving myself too much credit when I use that term.” He shrugs a shoulder, “It’s a double standard, I’m aware.”

Hannibal looks ahead, looking for something, before meeting Will’s eyes, “It takes time to come to terms with grief. It seems you may need to come to terms with the worthiness of your own experiences first.”

Will raises his eyebrows, suddenly emboldened by a tint of frustration. “I’m familiar with psychoanalysis, doctor. I can recognize the entry-level.”

Hannibal’s eyes sparkle. He seemed to want that reaction. “You are.”

It becomes clear that Will is better understood by this man than he thought he was. Even his frustration, as faint as it was, was out of his own control. Somewhere inside his brain, doubt begins to form about Dr. Lecter’s grief. It is vague and undeveloped – perhaps Hannibal isn’t here to grieve but to study. 

The man notices Will’s mental tangent, “Is your horse hitched to a post in the psychiatric field?”

“Hm? Oh, uh…” Will doesn’t want to drop all of his exposition at once, so he decides to withhold the interesting part. “Hitched to law enforcement for ten years, then… hm, law-enforcement-adjacent after that.”

A beat. “I take it that you are displeased with the practice.”

“Of psychoanalysis? Not dis _pleased_. Just… unwilling,” he chuckles at the word. He isn’t sure why. “Therapy doesn’t work on me – uh, I know you’ve likely heard that a million times before.”

“Just short of a million,” Hannibal’s hands rest on the table. Will can’t tell if that was a joke or not. “Rest assured, I will avoid the topic. I must admit that I find it difficult to switch off.”

Will understands. The law-enforcement-adjacent period was quite difficult, now that he thinks about it. God, he’s been so wrapped up in the present that he hasn’t focused much on that. Maybe that’s for the best. There’s enough in the present he needs to think about.

They chat – _chat,_ yes – for the entire hour. They pivot from the focus on grief, move to the more inane topics. The weather, for example. The most simple things – and yet every word Hannibal has to offer is one to be savored. There are moments of confusion, of mild embarrassment to be so swept by conversation, but they dissolve nearly immediately. 

Civilization returns as people come in, the conversation idles. Honestly, Will’s glad that it does – there are too many stakes, here. He’s doing well, so far. The temptation to jump forward into the _other, more, better_ is ignored. 

Will almost wants to share, today. There’s that creep of anxiety in his stomach he recalls from his time as an educator, lingering in the wings with his bag clutched to his side, counting to ten and back in his head. It’s a scary thing – Hannibal’s talk made him feel brave. He had already shared a piece of information about himself, willingly, for the first time in months. He feels confident with that step. What’s one more?

Yes, the evening starts nicely. And _then_.

Todd enters with his traffic excuse, to which the group hums as they always do. A comfortable routine. He opens with his metaphors, his half-shell talks. No one is new, this time, so Todd opens the floor. A few minutes pass in silence. Not necessarily _comfortable._

Sydney, after a few pats on the back by her tablemate, Jacob, decides to share. 

Will leans forward. It’s apparently her first time sharing her story. There’s an opportunity for Will to learn what to do, how to start, what to say.

“Alright,” Sydney says, shaking her head at herself. “Um. I don’t know where to even start.”

Todd braces his hand on his knee, assuming the posture of a trustworthy man, “Wherever you feel most comfortable, Sydney. The smallest details, when shared, can move mountains.”

Will holds in a sigh. This is rough. Hannibal spoke about the clouds outside, about the way the wind settled on the trees, drowned his words in metaphor. Todd can’t say a single sentence without making Will want to sink into the ground.

“Right. Hm.” Sydney says, “I guess it started with the accident, then.”

Oh, _shit_.

“Or, no. Before the accident,” she decides, “A week before, we were leaving a funeral. I guess that’s how that goes. And he told me he wants to look at moving house, look at a new start. And I think… I _know_ what he meant by that. Not a new start in the house, a new start for _me._ _A new start in_ _me._ ”

Will leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, hating how loud the chair groans as he moves. Hannibal is somewhat of a buffer for him, a wall to hide behind, sitting tall as he always does. No one’s looking at him, all eyes are on Sydney. There is that familiar ache of vulnerability he hadn’t expected. No one knows about the vulnerability but him, and that makes him feel better _and_ worse. 

“I – he’d call me neurotic in that nice way, even when he meant it in the _I don’t want to be with someone neurotic_ way,” she laughs quietly, wringing her hands in her lap. “And so, I had to quit. Everything. There was the nicotine, and there was my job, and there was… I had to quit the _lying,_ you know, that I was good. It isn’t useful to lie about your state of being at all times, but you start to believe it after a while.”

A collective hum. Todd seems pleased about this behind that sad face he’s wearing.

“So, I quit all the toxic stuff. At once, which was… tough. For me, for the husband.”

_ Coming home late, ears ringing with gunshots he didn’t fire and eyes sore from staring at the actions of dead men. _

“And, so. I was…” Her voice is lost for a minute as she focuses on breathing, in and out, slow and steady. “A month into everything, I was getting better. But he wasn’t… really happy, with how I was turning out. I think he thought that I… wouldn’t be so crazy after I quit smoking, after I got a therapist, but… some of that was just _me,_ unfortunately.”

_ Sleepwalking. Her hands were warm from the bed as she dragged him into the house by his cold hand. She had to drive three miles to find him, once, in the center of the road. She cried for hours and he wasn’t sure what to do. It was becoming clear that it wasn’t just the job. It couldn’t be.  _

“He took me on a drive. To talk about it. About the new house plan, saying that… um. I’d find my rhythm in a new place, new community.” She sniffs, choking on a solemn laugh, “But that was pressure, too. What if I _didn’t_ get my rhythm? What then? That was the point of the house, I thought, not… I don’t know, a place to settle down with someone I loved. It was a place where I was supposed to figure myself out.”

_ They had just paid off the house. The in-laws came over to celebrate. She was tense the entire time. He didn’t know why. He offered to buy dinner. She wanted to drive. There was something on her mind. He was too afraid to ask.  _

“He was driving. He had one hand on the wheel and one in his lap, and he just looked – “

_ She looked so –  _

“ – tired.”

_ – exhausted.  _

“And I thought… _god. It’s all me. I’m sucking him dry._ There was a certain point where he just couldn’t hide it anymore.”

Jacob takes Sydney’s hand. She squeezes it tight, from what Will can see. He has to take his hands under the table to hide the fact that he’s shaking. Shit. _Fuck._

“And I said… _Mark, honey, I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow. I’ll get it sorted._ ” She runs her free hand through her hair. “And he looked over at me, and he thought about his answer, and then…”

_ She looked over at me. I told her to put the seatbelt back on. And then… _

“I don’t know if they didn’t see us on the road or if they figured we’d move.” She whispers. “But he wasn’t looking because he was looking at _me._ I was the last thing he saw, and I… I can’t be sure he wasn’t thinking of a way to let me down gently – ”

_ – because it’s safer to let a crazy person down gently than to freak them out. That’s what she was thinking. It had to have been.  _

Hannibal looks over at him, Will hears the noise of his jacket shifting before he sees the movement. In fact, he can barely see anything through the tears. No one is looking at him, thank god. Only Hannibal. And even now, as he bites the inside of his cheek and holds his breath, he isn’t embarrassed.

As long as Todd doesn’t see him, it’s fine.

Will can’t focus on what she’s saying anymore. His head is too full, he’s blind. It’s only his heartbeat in his ears, now, and the steady blurring of the world around him.

_ The argument. The argument. She thought I was crazy, because I was, and I was going to try and fix it. I was going to try. I told her to put her seatbelt on but she didn’t think she had to. She didn’t have to. It wasn’t her fault. _

“Thank you so incredibly much for sharing your story,” Todd stands up and Will leans back just enough to hide his face behind Hannibal’s shoulder. The doctor turns away from him, likely to assist in this endeavor. “If you’d like to stay after with me, just to debrief, feel free. We can come up with some goals. And if you’d like Jacob, perhaps, to stay with you for comfort? We’re all proud of you. I’m sure Mark, wherever he is, would be pleased with your progress.”

Will stands, nearly knocking his chair back, and barrels toward the exit. He doesn’t look behind him. He feels eyes on him, however, which increases his speed.

The hallway seems shorter than he remembers, or maybe he’s just walking fast, or maybe he just can’t see as well. He doesn’t hear footsteps or shouts after him, which is good, but he isn’t sure why he expected shouts. He isn’t sure how he expects to drive with no sight, either, but this isn’t the first thought in his mind.

_ Have to go, leave, quickly – not home. He can’t go home, not now, he isn’t ready. She isn’t there, anymore. What’s the point, there, without her? After all he did. He could have driven, that day. It could have been him – should have been him.  _

Will hastily clips his seatbelt, pulls out of the parking lot, starts driving in the opposite direction he’s familiar with.

The streets are empty, this way. He has the space to keep continuous speed, to move further and further away from the room his wounds had just been pried open in. He drives until the neighborhoods grow sparse and the streetlamps are well spread out, until he can’t even begin to recognize where he is anymore. The lack of familiarity is the best comfort he could ask for.

He finds an empty lot, barely lit by its sole lamp, and pulls in. It’s less a choice and more a register of his ability to drive any further. The sign reads _Grassy Branch Baptist Church,_ though the words are worn down nearly beyond recognition. He can’t imagine anyone will be here, now – he can’t be sure anyone’s been there in years. He’s so far removed, here.

Will pulls into a spot facing the woods, his back tail lights facing the empty road and bathing the sign behind him in red. He closes his eyes, catching his breath, fully prepared to sleep away the pain and wake up semi-refreshed. Sure, his back will ache, but when doesn’t it? Maybe he can drive and get breakfast in the morning. Worst-case scenario, someone knocks on the window and asks if he’s there to confess. He’s never been a religious person but maybe he can just drive away. He doesn’t know anyone here. It’s alright.

He pries an eye open as he hears the faint noise of tires rolling over an uneven lot. Pivoting in his seat, he sees a dark vehicle pull in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's time. the beginning of my favorite dynamic i think I'm ever going to write.


	6. Memento

_Four months ago_

* * *

Will wasn’t conscious when the police cars pulled up.

He didn’t know who called them – it may have been the other car, he did stop up at the top of the ditch. Will could remember a man’s voice, calling down to ask if they were alright. They were not. His memory of the accident is spotty, which is to be expected, but it’s damn inconvenient.

Every time he blinked he lost minutes at a time – the man was yelling, and then… everything was red and blue… and then they were pulling him out of the car. Will had tried to stop them, but he couldn’t speak. They weren’t supposed to pull him out first, they were supposed to pull her out first – why weren’t they pulling her out first? They were supposed to prioritize her, they hadn’t even checked to see if she was breathing. 

People were asking him his name, shining lights into his eyes. The ambulance hadn’t arrived yet so they laid him on the asphalt.

There was the pain, the dizziness, the cold and wet road. He couldn’t find her in the crowd, couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough. He closed them, just to rest for a second or two, and he woke up in a hospital room. The in-laws sat at his bedside, teary-eyed. He asked about her, about how she was doing. They quietly asked if they could call his parents or his siblings. 

It became clear. And he broke in two.

Will had to muster the strength to form the words, to tell them how alone he was. It hadn’t come up beforehand, not in the five years they’d been married. 

It took him a week to heal enough to function. His ribs were just short of fractured, his rotator cuff had been fumbled in the impact, he was concussed, his body was terribly bruised. He wasn’t conscious for more than five hours a day until the Friday after the impact, and he was discharged.

The in-laws offered to stay at the house with him for a while. He waved them off with a shaky smile – he knew what they thought of him. He didn’t want any of their doubts, their worries, their gripes to solidify now that he was at his most vulnerable. He had been so careful to be worth their time, before. But there was nothing left in him to try. They drove him home, helped him with his bags, and left. 

On Sunday morning, everything was set in motion. 

He received a call – an _Unknown,_ but he knew what it was. He had expected an update on the other driver, expected the comfort of justice, a question of how he was doing, so he wasn’t thrown off. He gripped his phone in one hand, pressing the bright green button, as he made his journey to the couch. 

_“Is this Mr. Will Graham?”_

“Speaking,” he had said, as one does, completely prepared for that weight off of his shoulders. 

Instead: _“Mr. Graham, the accident report has found your wife at fault for the damages. Unfortunately, due to her passing, you now owe twenty-three-thousand dollars for the repairs on the other vehicle.”_

There was a moment to scan the words, none of which fitted the script he had already planned in his head. There was confusion, then the wave of realization that she had in fact passed, and then the anger, and then the confusion again. 

“I… I – I’m sorry?” He managed. He held a hand out to brace himself against the back of the couch, stifling a groan. He was still sore, of course. “This… there must be some misunderstanding, surely.”

_“The accident report has definitively found your wife at fault.”_

“Yes, but she has… d-died, she’s gone, now. I don’t understand.” Will ran a shaking hand through his hair, “I – she was _parked,_ you see.”

_“I don’t have the information in front of me, sir, but unless they change the accident report, you owe twenty-three-thousand dollars for the repairs on the other vehicle.“_

Will was advised to stay home, semi-idle, for a month. This was no longer an option. He struggled to get his clothes on, a once thoughtless task taking one hour of his life. The entire time, his mind was struggling to grip onto a single thought, flying from one concern to another. He fumbled with his laces, unable to get his hands still for long enough to tie a discernable knot. 

It took him a moment to pull out of the driveway, hands on the steering wheel, that lingering memory of the _last_ time, of his last drive with her. But he couldn’t let another minute pass without trying to set the record straight. 

He limped into the station. The man at the front desk was new. Will had hoped it would still be Jerry – though, he supposed, it had been a long time since he’d been working with them. 

The man didn’t look up at Will – not as he approached, not as he stood at the counter, waiting. After a minute, Will managed to speak, “H-hello?”

Finally, eye contact. He looked concerned – likely because Will’s voice was shot. He hadn’t spoken aloud much in the past week, the call this morning being one of few exceptions. 

“How can I help you?”

“I… need to submit a request. To see an accident report.”

“Do you have the receipt?” The man was unbothered. This struck a chord. 

Will blinked. “I was injured.” He would have thought his bruised face and uneven posture would have communicated this. Perhaps he was deserving of some empathy. “I was unconscious.”

“On the receipt for the report, you would have gotten an identification number that I could then use to – “

“I’m familiar with the process.” Will stuttered the words out, flabbergasted by this exchange. “My name is Will Graham. It was myself and my wife in the accident. It was the fifth of this month, on Riceville at roughly seven pm.” 

The man sighed. “It will take a moment.”

“I have time,” Will replied. He glanced at the man’s nameplate, _Eli Colton,_ before smiling sourly and wobbling over to the waiting chairs. “Thank you.”

It took an hour to receive the report. It cost him fifteen dollars. Eli beckoned Will with a limp wave, offering the warm papers to him. 

Will scanned the pages. The date, the time, the names were correct. They were in Vehicle One, the other man was in Vehicle Two, it all seemed to add up – until. 

_VEHICLE ONE (V1) WAS PARKED ALONGSIDE THE BEND OF RICEVILLE – PERSONS TWO (P2) AND THREE (P3) SAT IDLE WHILE VEHICLE ONE (V1) SPED AROUND THE TURN –_

“Sorry, this…” Will said quietly, his heart rate slowly increasing. How did it go this wrong? “It says _persons two and three sat idle while vehicle one turned onto the bend._ My wife and I… we sat idle _inside_ vehicle one, there’s no possible way that we could have been sitting idle while simultaneously turning onto the bend.”

“Mr. Graham, I am just the messenger.”

“Right, but you are the mode through which I can get _help_ for this, am I wrong?” Will held up the report, his grip so tight it begins to ache. His voice was on the cusp of breaking, “It’s saying that my wife crashed intothe car _that she was in,_ the car that she d- _died_ in. She was both idle and moving at seventy-miles-per-hour. She was both parked and in motion. Can you see how that’s inaccurate?”

Eli began to speak, _“I’m just the messenger,”_ when Will felt a hand on his shoulder. 

He turned to see a familiar face. Thank _God._

“What brings you here, stranger?” Officer Stimson said, grinning for only a moment before taking in the sight before him. Will was a wreck, he knew this much. “Jesus, Will.”

“Hey, Tom. Uh,” Will shook his head, lowering his hand. “Who do I need to speak to about an inaccurate accident report?”

“An…” Stimson glanced down at the paper in Will’s shaking fist and slowly put the pieces together. “Oh, shit. Uh, that’s… I can see if Lieutenant Perry’s available, I think he’d get that sorted.”

Will sighed, unsure how long he’d been holding his breath, “Thanks. I owe you one.”

More time passed in the plastic chair that was likely doing no good for his injuries. Will caught Eli’s glances over the tall desk – pity and aggravation. That wasn’t what he wanted. He just needed the report to be fixed so that he could have some peace of mind to grieve in peace. 

The sun began to set. Will found himself dozing in the chair, his head resting back against the wall, when a door opened and his name was called. He hadn’t seen the new Lieutenant, the man was an entire mystery to sort out. And yet, he couldn’t even manage to be nervous. There wasn’t much left of him. 

He walked down the hallway, body weak from the chair and mind buzzing, toward the Lieutenant’s office. It was where it was last time – same office, same commute, different man. It couldn’t have been too much of a hassle. 

Lieutenant Perry was seated at his desk when Will closed the glass door behind him. The paper was crinkled in his hands from his worried fidgeting, but he held it nonetheless. He stood, waiting to be acknowledged. It took a few minutes. 

“Afternoon, Mr. Graham.” He didn’t seem like he pitied Will, but there was something concerning about his professionalism. “Stimson told me you were talking about a… mistake on your accident report.”

“Y-yes, right, I…” Will took a few steps forward, “I lost my wife in the crash – uh, she was driving, you see – or, she was in the driver’s seat. We were parked, uh, and were crashed into. But – b-but, the report doesn’t quite… uh…” His throat was sore, so he simply held out the papers. “I got the call that she was found at fault and that I had to pay for the damages, but that didn’t quite make sense, so I drove straight here.”

The man hummed, taking the report and reaching for his glasses, “I see.”

That short statement did not inspire confidence in Will. Rather, it did the opposite. There was no empathy, there, no promise of any sort. 

It took five minutes for the man to skim the report. There was no noise. No _ah, I see the problem, here_ or _this doesn’t make any sense._ No. 

The Lieutenant finished reading, then took his glasses off. He placed the papers down on his desk. He sighed. Then, “Unfortunate.”

Will stared for thirty seconds before sputtering, “W-what?”

“Minor details I could fix, like names or vehicle ownership, but… it seems here that Officer Garneau definitively checked the box that marked your wife at fault,” Perry pointed to the box. “And that is how it will stand.”

The words sank in. They sank in beyond the five hours Will sat waiting, beyond the bruises on his skin, his swollen eye. Beyond the loneliness of the bed waiting for him at home. They sank in… and they did not make any fucking sense. 

“I don’t understand,” Will said softly, treading carefully. He had to be cautious, here. Measured. “You… you can see the inconsistencies. It’s impossible for my wife to have hit our own car, it’s… it’s _impossible_ to have been moving and idle at the same time, I just – “

“It can’t be such a bad thing,” Perry replied. “You work for the FBI, you can pay for the car.”

Will couldn’t breathe. “C-can’t… _can’t be such a bad thing_?” He felt his knees begin to buckle so he reached out to grab onto the back of a chair, “My wife is dead. I almost died. That’s… that is _vehicular manslaughter,_ Lieutenant. And… and the report even brushes over a possible DUI, so I’m not gathering why this _isn’t_ such a bad thing, sir.”

“You haven’t yet pressed charges,” the man nodded solemnly to the paper, “And I can, unfortunately, guarantee that a decision will not be made in your favor if you choose to.”

Dizziness. Nausea _. Nothing is making sense. Does he not believe me?_ “Why are you doing this?”

The Lieutenant shook his head before pressing a button by the phone, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Graham.” He held the report out to him, “Have a safe trip home.”

Will opened his mouth to respond, but Stimson was behind him with a hand on his back. His words were lost in the tide. The report was placed in his hand, he was led out of the office and back to the front of the building. He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to drive.

He wasn’t sure of anything, anymore. 

* * *

He lost sleep for days, weeks. 

He combed through every word of the report, outlined the inconsistencies with pencil and managed the workings out in the margins. He had the man’s name, Erik Porter. He had his statement citing Porter’s earlier alcohol intake, though he said it was mild. He had all the pieces, he could dispute every single one of the inconsistencies. But law enforcement wasn’t listening. And they wouldn’t, not unless he gathered substantial proof. They certainly weren’t planning on doing that themselves. 

No, this was beyond law enforcement. 

He quit his job soon thereafter. 

His days were swallowed by his own investigation. Erik Porter had a Facebook page, though it hadn’t been used since 2010. His job at that point had been a tactical job at a local auto shop, but Will couldn’t rely on that. Erik Porter was less present in the areas Will needed him to be, and it was killing him.

On the twentieth of July, just over a month after the accident, an opportunity fell onto his lap. 

He had been sleepless for weeks, at that point, propped up on his sofa with a cool washcloth over his forehead. Late-night television had been somewhat of a comfort, a way of numbing his eyes and clearing his brain until the sun would rise. 

The infomercials often made him laugh, even if they were spiteful laughs. They were offers of insane solutions to everyday problems, which Will had found himself racking up by the day. 

Will’s eyes had been slipping closed, finally prepared to rest (no matter how nightmarish his dreams would be), when the advertisement came on. 

_SelfDetectiveFree.net._ Arguably, one of the most suspect website names Will had heard of. And yet, it lured him awake, made him lean forward and rub the sleep from his eyes. 

It was the gateway. It promised, for only twenty dollars, the rest of the information he was missing. Address, occupation, connections, family tree. Will didn’t expect to need the family tree, but the rest was necessary. Necessary to build Porter’s character beyond _Person One_ (which he wasn’t)and _Vehicle Two_ , both mishandled terms in the report. Maybe, just maybe, if he knew who Porter was, he could reach out, try to come to an understanding. 

In the darkness of his living room, Will nearly blinded himself with his laptop as it whirred to life. It had gone unused for years. But it had a purpose now – and _he_ had a purpose. 

Erik Allen Porter. Born in Portland, Oregon. Moved to Virginia in 2009. He worked at the Mountain Steel Company, just started his second year. He wasn’t married. There was history of influenced driving, history of petty crime – but no convictions, no fees or jail time. Will grabbed a piece of scrap paper from the nearest table and dug around in the dark for a pen. He needed to write this down – proof. 

Granted: he had gone days without so much as a wink of sleep. The definition of _proof_ alongside many other words was skewed heavily by this fact. 

That morning, Will (against the advisement of his better brain) drove down to the station. His feet dragged against the tile floor, exhausted but determined, of the police station. Eli glanced up, this time, though his bored expression was tempered by the view of a tired, bruised man stumbling toward him. 

“You’re back,” said Eli, looking him over. “How can I help you, today?”

“I need to talk to the Lieutenant,” Will said, placing his notes down on the counter. “Whenever he’s available.”

“He’s out of town today. Can I help you with anything?” Eli was genuinely concerned, this time. 

“Is he on call?” He shifted on his feet, “I have the solution.”

“Will, man, are you alright?” Stimson’s voice made him pivot, “You look like death. Can I get you a coffee or something?”

“I need to talk to Lieutenant Perry,” Will grasped the paper and held it up. To anyone else, it likely looked like illegible scribbles with a half-dead pen. “He has to see this. I know who it is, I know what he did. Did you know – did you know that he has a _history_ of influenced driving? Gone without consequence?”

“Will…” Stimson said quietly, holding his hand up as if to calm him down before earth-shattering news. “You need to be very careful, here. Most of the folks here know you and empathize with you, but you can’t be going insane or we’ll have to – “

“Tom. If anyone’s going to believe me, it’s _you_ – “

“Where did you find this information?” The officer said hesitantly, taking the paper from Will’s hand and scanning over it. “The report didn’t have his address. Or… or his… place of work – where did you find this?”

“He has a _history,_ Tom. A history of this action, never once disciplined!” Will snatched the page back, pointing at a faint line, “And – I _know_ the Lieutenant said that he wouldn’t guarantee an accepted attempt at pressing charges, but one could argue certainly that repeated endangerment without consequence could – “

“Will. Listen.” Stimson scrubbed a hand over his face, “You need to just pay the money and move on.”

 _Shit._ _Shit. He’s not listening._ “No, no, you don’t – it’s twenty-three-thousand dollars, I don’t have that. I don’t _have_ anything anymore, not after what he did to me.” Officers started to take notice to a scene occurring. Stimson seemed to not want that to continue. 

“Listen,” he lowered his voice and got too close for comfort. Will scanned his face. “Porter is… a young guy. He’s made mistakes, yes, but never ones as big as this.”

“Mistakes,” Will murmured. His effort was falling on deaf ears. 

“You need to pay for the damage, and everything is going to be fine.” Stimson clapped Will’s shoulder, which made him grimace. “Do you need me to drive you home? You look exhausted.”

“No. No, I can’t go home. I need to talk to the Lieutenant.” He cleared his throat, “I need to talk to him, show him what I found.”

“You haven’t slept in a while.”

“I can’t sleep until you all get this right,” he felt his ears get hot. 

“Come with me,” Stimson went to grab Will’s arm, but he pulled away. “Will. You cannot win this. It’s better to move with the grain, here.”

“I – “

Stimson pulled him close, patience be damned, breath warm against his ear, “Porter’s related to him. Pay for the damage. Go home.”

The family tree. He fucking skipped the family tree. 

_Porter’s related to the Lieutenant. He gets off scot-free no matter what he does, no matter how many people he kills, he will not be brought to justice. There is no justice, not for Will, not for her. They don’t want justice for her. They could care less._

Will took a breath. He wanted to say something along the lines of: _I see that things have gone to shit since Fisher retired._ He wanted to say something like: _You really can’t help me? You know this isn’t right._ He wanted to say something. 

Instead, he took his hand and swept it across Eli’s desk, knocking the phone and everything else onto the hard ground. A picture frame shattered, wires came unplugged, the back of the phone detached and clattered across the room. 

Time stopped. And then it started again. 

Two men grabbed Will’s arms, dragging him toward the exit. He dragged his feet against the ground, the soles squeaking as he fought against their grip. Stimson watched as he was pulled down the hall and through the doors, his face contorted in something akin to shame. The Lieutenant wasn’t out of town after all – before the doors closed, he could see a few officers sprinting in the direction of his office. 

Will felt a smile tug at his lips as they threw him to the ground outside. His body ached, but he had shaken them up. They’ve done this several times in the past, robbed people of their grief. No one had ever challenged them on it.

He’d pay, sure. He’d pay them, until he could find away to break them. 


	7. Fragility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((please excuse any mistakes i’m sleep deprived that’s my excuse))

_He pries an eye open as he hears the faint noise of tires rolling over an uneven lot. Pivoting in his seat, he sees a dark vehicle pull in._

* * *

Will reaches forward to grab the key, watching as the car slows behind him – they’re giving him space, a few yards back. He raises a hand to block the bright lights that reflect in his mirror, the bright lights that blind him.

The beating of his heart is taking up all of his energy, he isn’t sure if he’ll be able to speak should this person get out of their car to come and talk to him – and what do they want to talk to him about? Is he trespassing, here? He didn’t see a sign. Is it a police officer? Oh, God, was he speeding? He wasn’t paying attention to the speedometer. It wasn’t the priority, unfortunately.

A car door closes. Will turns in his seat to squint through the light. He can make out a figure – a man. A man who begins to approach, slow steps, controlled, clear, and –

Familiar.

Will stumbles out of the car, covering his sore eyes with his hands as the light pours over his face. Crying, yes, he was _crying_ , that must be why.

“Hannibal,” Will says carefully, his voice more gravel than anything. “What are you – “

“It is a miracle that you didn’t crash,” Hannibal says, stepping carefully over a crack in the old pavement and folding his arms in front of him. “You were quite reckless on the road.”

“I wasn’t aware I was being followed.” Will pauses, lifting a hand to wipe his eyes.

“This is the norm,” the doctor nods once, “when one is being followed.”

He laughs quietly. It echoes. “Um… well, I’m fine, so.”

“I want to believe you,” Hannibal says, folding his arms over his chest. He’s standing closer, now, the headlights creating an aura around his frame. “But it’s not my place to believe.”

“Well, now you see me,” Will gestures to himself. “Safe and sound of mind. So.”

“You’d like me to leave,” Hannibal says, looking over Will’s shoulder. Only for a moment, but just long enough to prompt Will to glance behind him. There’s nothing there. “I see.”

“No. I mean – _shit,_ ” Will covers his face with his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m – I’m, I’m not having a good day.”

“You told me you reflect often,” the man says softly after a moment. “You were in good spirits just thirty minutes ago, and I find you in an empty parking lot.”

“So, you were just going to follow me home, then?” Will sniffs, trying his best to be presentable. Trying to redirect the conversation.

“You left so quickly because you related to her story, yes?”

Will pauses. He doesn’t know if he wants to reply – even now, even as Hannibal asks him about himself where he’s wanted an excuse to talk about himself for weeks. It seems ingenuine. He feels as though he’s forced Hannibal’s hand. And yet, he answers anyway, “Yes.”

“Then you’d likely not be going home,” he steps forward, “if you identified with her. With her view of home, or lack thereof.”

Will blinks.

And he stews in this moment.

He stews in the application of that thought – _home, or lack thereof_ – and in the absence of his home. Considers his place on the planet, now as he stands in this empty lot with an absolute stranger. A home _and_ a lack thereof.

Will turns on his heel, his back to the light, and allows himself to cry.

His shoulders go tight, and his knees buckle, and he feels his lungs struggle inside his chest. It’s been so long since he’s cried like this, with all of himself. It’s embarrassing, sure, he’s got company, but there’s no way to fix that. He reaches out a palm to brace himself on the car, but instead of cold metal, he feels a warm hand.

“Come, sit,” Hannibal says softly behind him. Will cannot help himself but to follow the man’s lead. It’s not like he can do anything else, not like he had any other plans by coming here. Hannibal’s left hand presses carefully against his back as he’s lead to sit on the hood of a car. Not his – Hannibal’s. “Deep breaths.”

Will manages to laugh, considering. He gestures to the tears with an unwieldy hand, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s – “

“No need to explain,” comes the calm voice beside him. “You know what you’re thinking, I do not. If you want to keep it as such, you should.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning his head back as if that will help him breathe any better. He covers his face with his hands. “I don’t think anyone’s ever known what I’ve been thinking.”

“You mean this in an adverse way.”

“I’m certainly not being modest,” he smiles shakily. “I… have had people call me… uh, a pure empath.”

Hannibal hums, “Beautiful.”

Will sends a quick glance, almost certain he heard that wrong. “What?”

“Pure empathy is a beautiful thing.” He seems pleased that Will is finally looking at him. “Though I fear your gift was used for other things.”

“… I suppose it was.” He grimaces, letting his arms fall into his lap. “I don’t know.”

“ _Law enforcement-adjacent_ ,” Hannibal recalls, “Spoken with somewhat of a distant look in your eyes.”

“Oh – right, yes. That’s… where I shined, as it were.” He hasn’t talked about this. Should he be talking about this? “It’s been years though. Since that was the case.”

“But you cannot forget the things you’ve seen.”

“I figured out a way,” Will manages, clearing his throat. Hannibal’s conversation in the warm room was comfortable – this empty lot, the way it carries his words, feels much more imposing. “Bit of time, bit of horribly-timed trauma. Some isolation. You know.”

“And yet your memories find you so easily.” Will glances over at Hannibal, who seems to have a smile behind his eyes. Will doesn’t know why that is. “Do you think, if you had shared those pieces of yourself before Sydney had managed to, that you would have avoided this?”

“This?” Will pulls a face.

“This feeling,” Hannibal offers, “The panic of being seen without being seen, laid bare by someone else’s words.”

“I’m not… uh, _laid bare,_ Dr. Lecter, I’m… shaken.”

Hannibal shifts, slightly, on the hood of his car. It’s ridiculous – Will is the absolute center of his attention, the one thing he’s wanted for so long, but he now feels guilt. It’s all he wanted, but he feels now as though he’s forced Hannibal to regard him. Impossible, he knows. He didn’t _force_ the man to follow him across town, didn’t _force_ him to sit here. He could leave if he wanted. Will repeats that in his head – _he could leave if he wanted._

“You seem to not… want to share the pieces, then.” The doctor scans Will, “Why is that?”

Will doesn’t know if he should say. He’s new, here, in this group. Hannibal has seen… what, three generations of healing, he said? Is it in his place to say what he thinks, as negative as those thoughts are?

“I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not the… demographic for that type of healing, I suppose.”

Hannibal nods, staring at the side of his face for a moment before turning forward. He doesn’t say anything. There is the mutual understanding that he will wait for Will to continue. Will doesn’t know if Hannibal knows that he needs to.

But the door is open. The door he’s been wanting to see opened for months, no witnesses here. Just him and Dr. Lecter and the echo of the lot. If he doesn’t walk through, today… will there be another door? Tomorrow? Next week? This year?

He knows nothing about Hannibal, and yet there is now a familiarity to him. To his fixed-ness, to his clarity. He knows nothing about Hannibal, and yet it feels as though Hannibal knows everything about him. A cold breeze brushes through his hair. He takes a breath in.

“Do you ever… worry about the implications of comparing grief to a broken shell?” Will asks quietly.

Hannibal smiles, clearly glad that Will is speaking to him. He seems pleased, like pieces to a puzzle are falling in place. “Worry? No. But consider, surely.”

“Sure, the whole of the shell is shattered. Some people have bigger pieces, easier cleanup, some have smaller ones.” Will taps his hand on his leg, unable to look in one direction for more than a few seconds, “But… things broken once can be broken again. Especially in transport.”

“What is the act of cleaning a mess if not a transport? A transport into the new, into a safer kitchen floor for bare feet.”

“They’re not thinking about the transport. They’re _thinking_ about gathering up the pieces. They don’t know what’s ahead.” Will tangles his fingers in his hair, “One trip, just _one_ stumble, and the progress is gone. And the pieces will shatter into colonies of their own. And the wounds will reopen. And they’ll be back to zero, perhaps even lower.”

“Do you often carry yourself with such fragility?” The air is so cold, Hannibal’s breath creates clouds of vapor ahead.

Will makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I’m unsure. Could _you_ tell me the answer?”

“Fragility masquerading as strength can make for a difficult fall.”

He shakes his head, wrapping his arms around himself, “I’d rather fall and die with dignity than spend the rest of my life carrying the shards of myself in my palms.”

“I know our conversations always culminate in my asking you for your thoughts,” Hannibal tilts his head down, scanning Will’s face. “I can help carry some of the shards of your past.”

“My past is definitely in shards,” Will laughs, bringing his shoulders up to his ears. “I don’t doubt that displacing some of the mess is in my best interest, but I can’t ask you to help with it.”

“I am happy to help. When asked to.” Hannibal lifts a hand to push a strand of hair from Will’s face. “That is my one rule, you see.”

“I’m…” Will says. He lets his chin drop to his chest. “I need help, I know.”

“From me?” A helping hand. An offer.

A pause. “Yes.”

“Would you like to start from the beginning, Will?” Hannibal asks, shifting his posture. Will’s never sat on the hood of a car like this before, he isn’t sure how to sit, but Hannibal (as always) is perfectly posed.

“I… haven’t ever tried to start from the beginning,” he admits. “It’s a jumble of chaos in my head. Tangled wires and memories. I don’t think they’d make much sense.”

“Grief is often nonsensical.” He brushes a hand down the front of his suit jacket, “I don’t mind. I have all the time in the world, all the time you have.”

“It… uh, she was my wife.” Will sighs. He can’t believe he’s saying this. “We were… she wanted to talk, so we went on a drive. And there… was a turn. Steep, no light – a man went speeding around the bend, and… that was it.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“She was killed. I, unfortunately, was not. And there were consequences.” Will shakes his head, “She was dead, I wasn’t conscious to tell them what happened. The other driver got the first word – and, apparently, the trust and familial bond of the entire police department.”

“Family, where yours had been robbed.” Hannibal murmurs, “Certainly, a motivator for action.”

“Action. I _tried_ action _,_ I tried for weeks. They had fucked the report – sorry,” he glances at Hannibal, an apology for his language, but Hannibal waves a hand in dismissal, “and had put my wife, _dead,_ at fault. So I had to pay for the car, for the damage.”

“They knew you, I imagine.”

“And they were all so _solemn_ about it, but so willing to rip my grief from my hands like it was nothing. And it was, because they put it down as nothing, and they called me as if it was nothing.” Will sighs, “And I was expected to just… succumb.”

“You did not, correct?”

Will closes his eyes. He remembers the feeling of the air whizzing past as he lunged to sweep all of Eli’s belongings onto the ground. His hand strays to his pocket, tugging the paper from where it’s been for months. “I attempted to spark doubt. I told them they had made a mistake.”

“But they knew,” Hannibal says.

“They knew,” Will unfolds the paper, his hands still shaken, staring down at it for just a moment. “And they thought I’d just allow it.”

“What have you written?” Hannibal’s gaze is locked on Will’s face, almost waiting for permission to look.

“It’s all I could find about him,” Will replies with no hesitation, flipping it in Hannibal’s direction for only a second before tucking it back into his pocket. He’s confident that Hannibal would be kind about it, even if he found it strange, but he worries. He’s held it in his pocket for so many months, now. “After they told me they couldn’t do anything about it, I looked into the guy’s history, his damn address. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat, it was all just… _delving_ into him, into his life. I hoped to convince them.”

“And you carry it with you, today.” The doctor’s eyes follow the paper as it disappears, “A reminder.”

“There is justice, always, until it’s me. Until it’s _me_ out there, losing my breath, losing the only people I have faith in. Is that how this works?” He presses his fingers into his eyes, “Maybe it’s my fault. It has to be. I just can’t bring myself to care until it’s too late. And now she’s dead. And I’m here. And I _have_ the answers, but no one will listen.”

“It seems that the people you seem to be speaking to will only listen if they find it a simple case.”

“I… am teetering on the edge of madness. I am so close to falling over, and yet no one acknowledges the cliff.” He takes a breath, “God, I can’t even tell if they can hear me, anymore.”

“I can hear you.”

“Of course you can,” Will says, so soft it’s more a breath than a sentence. “You’re the only one who can, apparently.”

The air settles for a moment, heavy on their shoulders. The night is humid, taunting Will’s words by hanging them in front of his face. Hannibal shifts beside him. It is the first time that Will sees Hannibal hesitate to speak. He does not hesitate for long.

"There is... a distinctiveness to the way that you carry yourself, Will. It is familiar in people like me and unfamiliar in people like them." Hannibal looks up at the sky, reading the stars. "And people cannot trust what they find unfamiliar."

"Well, what can I do about that?" Will scoffs, feeling quite lost indeed.

Hannibal takes a steady breath, "You say you have this man's address."

"Yes."

Hannibal holds out his hand, palm toward the calm sky, "May I have it?"

Without a second thought, Will reaches into his pocket to retrieve the crinkled page. He opens his mouth to say something – _it’s a bit hard to read –_ but keeps silent as he watches Hannibal fold the page into fourths and tuck it into his own jacket.

“Might I recommend a holiday?” Hannibal stands, then, his hand on Will’s shoulder as he leads him back to his car, “Charleston is quite lovely in the wintertime. A week or so should suffice.”

Will sputters for a moment, feeling as though he missed a few minutes’ worth of conversation. “A holiday.”

“Perhaps take a friend or two. Or use it as a mode of self-reflection. Call someone close to you before you leave, make sure they know where you're going and how long you'll stay.” He places a hand on Will’s arm, eyebrows set and face calm, “Take morning walks along the beach, watch the sun rise. Take pictures of the way the snow rests on the branches of the willows, if you would. And of any other things you may want to remember.”

“Pictures? I - I don’t think I understand.”

“I will see you when you return.” Hannibal begins to walk away from Will’s car, toward the edge of the streetlight’s reach. “Hopefully, then, you will have some peace of mind. At least, more than you have now.”

“Hannibal, I – “ Will opens his car door, then closes it in preparation to attempt to understand, but Hannibal turns. Will’s words disappear.

“I will see you when you return,” the man says again, certain. In control. Cool. “In the group.”

“… Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very suspect !!!! i hope you like this - i really appreciate your comments so far, you motivate me to press on :,)


	8. Sufferance

FRIDAY

Will calls the in-laws as he lugs his bag to the car. He hasn’t packed much, he doesn’t tend to require much upkeep these days, but he doesn’t tell them that.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t called,” he says, struggling to pull the door open with his cold-stiff fingers, “It’s been rough the past few days, unfortunately, but I’m taking a week’s vacation to Charleston.”

 _“… Charleston?”_ Mary’s voice shines through the static, _“So far away.”_

“Uh, it’s a funny story, I’ll tell you when I get back – which reminds me!” Will lugs the bag into the backseat and closes the door with his hip, “When I do get back, I’d love to have you both over for dinner. I can’t promise I’ll cook, you know I’ve always been terrible at that, but isolation isn’t good for any of us.”

 _“I’ll… I can bring a casserole,”_ Mary offers, clearly surprised by this sudden invite. _“I’m glad to hear you’ve changed your mind. We were worried about you.”_

“I was worried too. I’m grateful for your patience with me.” Will grimaces – he hates phone calls, all this diplomacy. He was never the social type, it was a miracle he managed to get married in the first place.

 _“When did you say you’d be back, again?”_ There’s hesitation.

“Next Thursday. No need to rush over when I get home, either, whenever you two are – “

 _“Just call when you’re on your way,”_ comes the quick response. Too quick. _“We’d love to see you.”_

“Sounds good.” Hannibal’s voice echoes in his mind - _Make sure they know where you're going and how long you'll stay._ He clears his throat, “Like I said, I’m in Charleston for the week… but, uh, you can give me a call if you need me to come back sooner. I’ll always be by the phone, whatever you need. Just, um… a few hours away.”

_“Alright, William. We’ll see you.”_

Will never told them that his name was just _Will_ – no additions, no subtractions. The wife had thought it was funny when they called him William, so she hadn’t either. And now, she’s gone, and the name is going to have to remain. It wouldn’t bode well, to be so insecure in his own identity to have to end this five-year-long inside joke. If William is who they want, William is who they get.

When he gets in the car, it’s bright outside. When he arrives, it won’t be.

It’s an eight-hour drive. It is the first lonely road trip he’s taken in a long time. He’d often not even listen to the radio in the old times, conversation was his first choice in all situations. It’s difficult to replace that, but he attempts. He listens to music, attempts to focus on podcasts but ultimately turns them off.

The silence of the cabin, the roll of the tires, is what he ends up deciding in. It lets him think, surely. About the hotel, about the first night’s sleep away from home in over four months.

And then, amidst the plans, a doubt arises – why is he doing this, again?

He recounts last night in his mind, hands loose on the wheel. There must be a concrete reason. There has to be, one just out of reach. To be fair, he was fairly out of it. Perhaps it was just buried. Buried like everything else.

Right. There was the polite conversation beforehand, then the group. He left in somewhat of a panic, drove to the lot, Hannibal followed, they spoke. Hannibal essentially said, _uproot your life for a week._ And Will agreed. No hesitation.

But… _why_?

It’s only been four hours into the trip when Will pulls over at the side of the road, cars whizzing past. The blindness is gone as he grips the wheel and stares forward at the stretch of uneven pavement.

He needs to scan, a semi-panicked trip through his mind, taking a lamp to the past few weeks. It’s difficult to focus, here, the rumble of the traffic distracting him, but it’s somewhat manageable. He hasn’t done this in a while, it takes some calibration.

He just has to know where to look, before he enters. Too many times he’s been lost. There’s the old house in the field, the memory of his old place before the wedding. He modeled his memories this way on purpose – on the nights he lay sleepless in the empty bed, dreadfully heavy with the absence of _her,_ he thought he ought not recede into a house whose mortgage was under her name.

Will closes his eyes on the side of the road, takes a breath, slow and steady, and opens them in that old house by the woods. He misses that place, the long driveway and the field that wrapped around it. The smell of the old wallpaper. He begins to walk, a flashlight in hand, trying to put the pieces together. His feet stumble over the floor. It’s been so long he’s forgotten how to walk, here. Maybe that’s for the best.

When he turns the corner, he almost falls backward. The walls used to be bare, before. Then, there were the framed, ink-blotted portraits of the past that were so ungracefully unearthed last night. But those are gone.

Now, floor to ceiling, the halls of his mind are adorned with Hannibal.

He blinks himself awake, scrubbing his hands over his face. His obsession has certainly grown, just under the surface of his skin. The first instinct is to rationalize – he’s unemployed, he’s alone with his thoughts. Dr. Lecter is the first person to talk to him in months without expectation of money, secrets, anything. He’s been sick, exhausted, lonely. Of _course_ he’s latched onto this man. What else is left?

More important than anything, Dr. Lecter has given him the motivation to get out of the state. He can’t focus on the obsession. In fact, maybe some distance would do some good. Focus on himself, on the sound of the waves and the cold breeze.

The hotel is nice. It’s odd to have a king-size all to himself, clean and starched, but he welcomes the momentary pampering. Will unpacks his clothes, even putting them in the empty drawers for once in his life, trying to make it seem homey. It’s much nicer than home, though much more sterile. He needs sterility.

A blank slate. He’s been given a blank slate, here.

He’d be a fool not to take it.

* * *

SATURDAY

He sleeps for much of the day. This new bed, this new atmosphere unconnected to anything he’s accustomed to, is a wonderful sleep aid. This is to be expected – everything he’s been accustomed to recently has been an on-off pattern of chaos-then-nothing, though they were both overwhelming in their own respects.

He doesn’t go anywhere, even when he crawls from the nest of white duvets and sheets. He sits on the balcony just outside his room, a warm mug in his palms as the crisp air bites his skin. It’s nice, though. Reminds him that he’s alive, reminds him that he has skin. He forgets that he has a body, sometimes. He doesn’t have anyone around to remind him, anymore.

Six months ago, he’d wake up in his own bed with his own wife. And she’d kiss him. And that was all the reminder he needed. He doesn’t quite feel like a person without her.

Will doesn’t plan to order room service every night this week but, because he is feeling particularly human, he decides to tonight. He watches several episodes of a television show he’s never seen before, legs folded into a basket on the bed, not entirely invested but content nonetheless. It is a moment of peace – a moment where the act of being alone does not inherently feel lonely.

Truly, though the bed is cold and he doesn't speak, it's like she's there.

* * *

SUNDAY

Sunday is more productive. Will ventures out into the lobby of the hotel early in the morning, curious to see what a functional continental breakfast looks like. The cereal dispensers actually work, which he’s never seen before.

He strikes up a conversation with another patron – not on purpose. She asks him if the cereal dispensers actually work, and it continues.

“They do, actually.” He manages, taking a cautious sip of hot coffee. It doesn’t burn him, this time. It usually does. “Surprised me too.”

“Huh,” she says quietly. She nods, “Sorry to bother.”

“Not at all,” Will waves a hand. He wasn’t anticipating sociality. Somehow, he isn’t afraid. Must be the beach air. He grabs a couple of wooden sticks from the dispenser beside the coffee machine, a few off-brand sugar packets.

She’s an officer. She must be here for training. He remembers those. That apology she offered – the _sorry to bother –_ is unfortunately familiar.

“What are you doing in Charleston?” She asks, grabbing a plastic bowl. “Business? Leisure?”

Hm. Will doesn’t know what this falls under, truly. A mysterious vacation is a vacation nonetheless. “Leisure, I suppose.”

“Ah. Fascinating time to come to the beach, it’s supposed to be near zero tonight,” she tilts her head. “I’m here on business, unfortunately. Conference.”

“A conference,” Will repeats. He’s usually not a morning person. Maybe it was all that sleep. “Do I ask?”

“Training seminars. Today’s… uh, officer resiliency,” she shakes her head, just south of fondness. Will realizes how differently they’re dressed – he’s in his low-profile pajamas and she’s wearing her uniform. He can’t bring himself to be embarrassed. “Nothing particularly glamorous.”

“Admirable, though,” he offers. “I haven’t worked on the force in quite some time, but I can remember the, uh, treatment.”

She laughs, “It’s in the fine print.”

He remembers wearing a badge. Then, not-officially-wearing-a-badge, but still bearing the weight. He remembers _you can quit_. He remembers _no, I can’t._ He remembers drowning in the sea of his mind while keeping them dry. Will clears his throat, “On some days more than others.”

They part. She takes her bounty away toward the golden double doors, perhaps psyching herself up for hours of training on something she's likely already fluent in.

Shallow icicles line the balcony roof. Will has half a mind to step up on a chair and sweep his arm, knocking them down. He doesn’t. Instead, he finishes the marathon of the mindless show and flicks through the telephone book. No responsibilities at all.

The halls of his mind are still full, he knows. They’ll be full when he gets back, just as they are now. Mindlessness won’t get him anywhere. But that’s what he wants.

* * *

MONDAY

Will forgot to take pictures yesterday. That’s part of his task, here – a piece to the mystery puzzle he’s been assigned by a friend. He thinks they’re friends. He wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t view Hannibal as some sort of a friend. Albeit a friend he often considers to be a stranger as well. Certainly, Hannibal’s concern plays a factor on his end. Concern that leads to action is pretty indicative.

He pulls on his jacket and his boots. It’s a short commute to the beach. It’s early on a Monday, the sands are almost completely abandoned. This is ideal. There’s the familiar slosh of loss inside him – they didn’t go to the beach enough when she was alive. The memories he has of her, wind in her hair, blue bathing suit, are fleeting. He doesn’t have the energy to grasp for them like he often does.

The act of taking pictures in public has always been foreign to him. It’s awkward, the fumbling of phones and the chasing of perfect shots. Memories are fine, for him. Not today, it seems. He doesn’t want anyone to watch him as he lifts his phone, taking pictures of the murky horizon, the churning sea. He pivots, takes a picture of the hotel.

It feels as though he’s taking pictures of a crime scene.

It doesn’t quite make sense, one of few thoughts that go completely against all reason, so he ignores it.

* * *

TUESDAY

There is a nagging feeling that something is wrong in the house in the field.

Will goes on a walk, following the signs to the boardwalk before splitting off onto his own path. The paved sidewalks fade into graveled pathways, the noise of the waves grows distant, the open sky narrows as it’s framed by trees.

He wants to walk in a place he’s never been. Unaffected by sour memories, no fear of episode or recognition. And yet, there’s something wrong. In the field, in the hallway, in his head – but there’s no reason to be.

Sure, grief is present. Yes. It’s familiar, now, that feeling of illness. But this is more than that, it’s… anticipation for something beyond. It’s making him feel dizzy as he walks, as he tries to focus on the world outside his head while trying to contain the one inside it.

The halls are all wrong. There’s something creaking, some displaced footstep inside. He’s afraid to look, though, so he doesn’t.

It’s a small possibility that this is just another phase. That he’s moving from one stage of grief to the other. He’s never been fond of renovations. He convinces himself it is a momentary setback.

He takes pictures of the trees that hang. When he comes across the willows, he hears Hannibal’s voice in his head.

Will takes a few pictures for him. He isn’t sure how he’ll send them, though. Or if he even plans to.

* * *

WEDNESDAY

_This isn’t the car dream. This isn’t… this isn’t right._

_There’s no car, here. The street is empty, no danger to be seen. No crunch of glass or metal. And yet, his pulse is just as high. The anticipation of the crash lingers – after all, this is the setting. This is the bend, he’s memorized every crack in the pavement, here. The scene is set. But he’s not in the car. She’s not in the car. There is… no… car. So what is his purpose?_

_He’s in Charleston. He should be in Charleston, right now, so this must be a dream. This has to be the dream._

_Will begins to walk down the street. He is not acting of his own volition – he rather feels as though he’s tied to someone’s shadow, dragged along the road. How is he able to feel the pavement on the soles of his feet, like this? The lucidity is odd. The pain in the dreams is always a memory, the noises are remembered exactly as they must have happened._

_B_ _ut this isn’t memory._

_This is a new experience. And it’s scaring him._

_His steady walk turns into somewhat of a stuttering pace as if he’s being controlled via strings. He can almost feel them tug at the skin of his arms, of his legs. He can feel that pain as well, completely foreign._

_His brain is capable of many things. He can imagine himself behind a weapon, at the top of a ravine with someone’s collar in his fist. But this is… this is impossible. This is a sort of possession._

_The further he is directed like a puppet down the road, the heavier he feels. He can see the house, the one she lived in, at the end of the road. No. Not here. Not home._

_It’s too real. He’d like to wake up, now. Though he was never allowed to wake up early before. Too real. But it’s not real. He’s not awake. He’s not awake. He must remind himself of this before he reaches home, that whatever happens inside is not real. He isn’t awake. His wife has been dead for nearly half a year, and if she is inside, it is not her. It is a memory of her. Whatever happens inside isn’t real. Whatever happens inside isn’t –_

_The door creaks open._

_Will blinks._

_She's here. He can feel her. Hear her breathing. He closes his eyes before he can see her._

_And then, he’s bent over the kitchen sink, his hands are drenched in blood. He’s desperately trying to scrub it away but it seems to have dyed his skin. The strings are gone. It’s just him, now._

Will gasps for air, nearly falling out of bed as he shoots to sit up and clutch at his wrists. The blood is gone, of course, but he’s drenched the bed in his sweat.

He gets up and begins to pack.

Sure, he’s meant to drive home tomorrow. He’s meant to stay here to relax, but it seems he cannot escape himself even states away. There’s no use. He can tell Hannibal about it when he gets back, tell him how grateful he is for the thought. It was so nice for a few days, the break from the pain.

It returns, always.

He knew that.

Of course he did.


End file.
